Paradise Lost
by Vaudevillain
Summary: Anakin reflects on what he's gained, and what he's lost. AnakinPalpatine.


**Paradise Lost**

"Chancellor," Anakin said, prostrating himself in front of Palpatine's robes, his breath hitched in his throat. A swell of power surrounded the Supreme Chancellor as he entered the room, a subtle rippling in the Force, and it never failed to send cold splinters down Anakin's spine.

The Chancellor said nothing, walking slowly to where Anakin was kneeling on the velvet crimson carpet. Anakin grasped the Chancellor's rich robes in hands too acquainted to be trembling, and kissed the hem gently with precise and deliberate action. The Chancellor put his hand gently on Anakin's head, soft brown curls tangled around his tense fingers; one of Palpatine's only signs of affection. They stayed in silence for a few minutes before Palpatine beckoned Anakin to rise.

Anakin took his place beside the Supreme Chancellor as they walked in silence towards the glass wall overlooking the metallic canyons of Coruscant. A slick hiss and three sets of sharp clicks told Anakin that the doors to Palpatine's quarters were closed and locked shut. The Chancellor coughed, a terrible gut-wrenching cough bending him nearly double. Anakin almost moved, but ultimately his hand merely twitched as he tightened his arms in restraint. The Chancellor never appreciated feeling frail, even if the intentions were noble.

Perhaps it was a test, Anakin thought calmly. Perhaps the Lord Chancellor had doubts concerning his loyalties. That couldn't be the case though, Anakin thought, his honour – naïveté? – was far too strong, too overwhelming for betrayal, and Palpatine knew that. There was something sinister about conversing with Palpatine though. Anakin could always sense an undercurrent of thought and test. Sometimes Anakin felt pursued and accused by the Chancellor's naked eyes, that they were constantly judging him for value. Occasionally, Anakin found that some of the Chancellor's words sounded rehearsed, planned and searching, examining Anakin for worthiness. Like one illusion in a grand plan, a scheme of galactic proportions. Anakin brushed away the thought and focussed his eyes on a small speeder tearing and dodging over the pinnacles and minarets of Coruscant's skyline. He was worthy, he knew he was. He had worked too hard, had shown too much power not to be worthy.

"Master Jedi," Palpatine said calmly, his voice tight and re-assured once again. Anakin stood at attention, his hands held tight at the small of his back. "Anakin." The name sounded foreign and beautiful coming from Palpatine's arched lips, sounding new every time the Chancellor spoke it, making each syllable sound like a subtle delight. Anakin turned to face the Chancellor and wasn't surprised to see the Chancellor looking back with steady eyes. "The sunlight," was all Palpatine said, the small breath curling and soft on Anakin's drawn lips.

And as he said it, the amber sun crested from under tawny clouds, and the blinding rays reflected on the multifoliate glass of from a great copper wave crashing over the acute landscape. Anakin felt the word 'beautiful' on his lips, but thought better of it. Palpatine knew what he would be thinking though – he always knew. From Anakin's tense shoulders, to his flushed lips, to his delicate fingers drawn together into soft temples: Palpatine knew.

The Supreme Chancellor drew away from the windowed vista and sat on the nearby couch with a distinct air of purpose. Everything Palpatine did was a deliberate action; every movement had a purpose. Anakin knew that, and he tried to keep that in mind, tried to dissect the purpose. But, Anakin soon found himself seduced by Palpatine's charms, and he began to forget about the deliberateness of the actions, no longer bothered with the _why_. The action had enough purpose; there was no need for a reason. No need for a _why_. Just a _what_.

Anakin let his cloak slip from his shoulders, catching it deftly and hooking it nearby. Though Palpatine registered and understood Anakin's body language and eccentricities, Anakin began to understand Palpatine's. The Chancellor understood the value in clothing, the inherent status implied with each garment. He made specific care to dress in the most lavish fabrics cut in the most humble of styles, implying a sense of worth, and, at the same time, modesty. The Chancellor believed power could be withdrawn through dress, through clothing. In order to humble himself, Anakin discarded the most flowing and beautiful of his garments, his cloak. Anakin knew that Palpatine felt, perhaps merely subconsciously, grander in stature because Anakin had discarded a layer.

"Anakin," the Chancellor spoke softly. Anakin flushed. Was his action too deliberate? Did Palpatine know that Anakin was deliberately making him feel stronger? "Come nearer, young Skywalker." Anakin turned to face the Chancellor. Anakin smiled almost imperceptibly. Though the Supreme Chancellor might be smaller in size, he was still a man of immense presence, of grand disposition. His age was misleading. He had vitality, though his hair was greying and his eyes were met with crow's feet. He was handsome, if only in pure mortality.

Anakin sat beside Palpatine, who smiled affectionately at him. "You've really become…" Palpatine didn't finish the sentence, and Anakin didn't need him to. Palpatine touched the side of Anakin's face, his rough hand on Anakin's soft cheek, and suddenly Anakin felt as if he were a child again, on the dry and cracked wastelands of Tatooine. Palpatine's hand became the sand, rough and familiar, and the Chancellor's eyes the twin suns, warm with affection.

Anakin felt a homesick sob rise to his throat, but he swallowed it quickly. Why would he feel such emotion? What was left for him on Tatooine? His mother killed, no friends to speak of. It was an empty, scarred world. Anakin did not have a single happy memory of the wasteland, yet it still brought tears and sobs and ill feel. In true Jedi manner, Anakin managed to withdraw into himself, but not before Palpatine registered the weakness. Anakin was furious at his display of emotion.

Palpatine smiled inwardly. Another piece of the puzzle connected.

"My little boy," Palpatine murmured deafly, his hand still on Anakin's cheek. Anakin did not hear the words, but he felt the sentiment: a soft breeze, a weight lifted from his tense shoulders. Only a whisper through the air, creating a gale of emotion. Anakin wanted to pull away, wanted Palpatine to move his hand, wanted to stop feeling so – wanted to stop feeling. This was not the way of the Jedi. This was affection and fear and the memories of a little boy on a wasted world. He wanted to stop remembering, stop feeling the sand on his cheek, the etchings of a past memory. This was not who he was to become. He was a Jedi, and Jedi's were not – were not – and Anakin wanted to cry. Wanted to cry and scream for his loss, and his inability, and his secrecy, and his emotions. Wanted to be rid of it, of _this_.

A blue noise shattered the hallowed silence, the technical ring of a comlink. Palpatine withdrew his hand and activated the device and put it to his ear. Anakin heard a vague mumbling from the device, a pause, then the noise as the comlink deactivated. Palpatine stood and straightened his robes, as if brushing the sandy memories from his clothing. Palpatine said nothing as he left the room – he never told Anakin where he went. Anakin knew he was leaving though, and knew he would be long in returning. Not a word was spoken between the two; only the hiss of the door closing marked the end of their meeting.

Anakin sat back on the couch, wishing to melt into the soft fabric. Why had he fallen to pieces so easily? One touch from the Chancellor, and Anakin felt vulnerable and weak. It was toxic, and Anakin almost felt ill just thinking about it. Almost felt ill. Deeply, so deeply he probably didn't even realize, he enjoyed it. Enjoyed feeling like an adolescent, feeling safe under Palpatine's touch.

Anakin rubbed his temples gently, trying to understand what he was feeling. This was not the way of the Jedi. He could not relive his childhood; he could not feel affection for Palpatine, for Padmé. He could not delve into his sexuality. He could not feel anger. He could not – he could not – he could not. How could he repress his feelings? How could he ignore how fiery with lust Padmé made him feel? How could he resist Palpatine's touch? To deny human instincts was to live a shattered life. To deny instincts is to deny the very thing that makes us human. How could the Jedi live such meaningless lives? They were the hollow men, shells of human beings, and Anakin was sick of it.

He could not deny his instincts. He loved Padmé, he loved Palpatine, he loved Obi-wan. He felt affection. He felt lust. He felt anger. Most of all, he felt human. He felt gloriously, marvellously mortal. To rip his teeth into flesh and tear apart. To trace his tongue down Padmé's breast. To hold his Master in an embrace. That was life. That was power beyond the Force. No ripples, no tremors, no waves of crashing, arching energy. This was natural and beautiful.

Casting off his loose black tunic in a desperate rage, throwing it to the floor. Tearing off his boots and undoing his sash and gathered pants, Anakin walked towards the great picture window, dressed in nothing but soft cloth shorts. It felt good, the cold air ripping into his sweaty flesh, a frozen claw crawling up his spine. It felt good, the gnawing hunger for humanity in his stomach. It felt good, a lusty tightness in his muscles, his nipples hard. All focussed on one target. Absorbed on one glowing end – an end Anakin would go to any means to produce.

To regain his humanity. To regain his mortality.

Anakin fell to the nearby wall in a lusty terror, his hand grasped tightly, almost violently. Sweat gently licked at his temples, curling down his cheeks and nose and dripping off his chin as his hand slid up and down, into a panicked tattoo of raw transience. Anakin pushed against the wall, his calves tightening in effort, his chest panting with desperation. Harder, to regain conscience. Sweat, like blood, wound its way down his chest. A breathless, gasping desire in his cramped sides. A shifting, shimmering spectrum of harsh fright, bursting stars of glinting embers and released tension. Morality. Panic bound in Anakin's chest. Humanity. Terror blooming in fallow fields. Desire. Collapsing with ferocity, Anakin shuddered against the wall, each spasm sending a fiery strand of pearl against his stomach, against his fist. Quickly unwinding. Muscles clenching and unclenching. Desire quelled. Passion seeping. Anakin slid down the wall, his legs unsteady, his eyes closed.

Purity lost.

Humanity regained.


End file.
